


Not Your Problem, Love

by phrynewrites



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF, RuPaul's Drag Race UK RPF
Genre: F/F, Lesbian AU, Roommates, but they're also emotionally stunted, no one knows how to cook but a'whora asserts she's a little better at it, oh my god they're roommates but they're also exes, oneshot but you could convince me to do more you really could
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynewrites/pseuds/phrynewrites
Summary: Tayce prepares for a date while A'whora prepares for a long night of sewing and ignoring her feelings. Though not without a bit of gentle teasing, of course.
Relationships: A'Whora/Tayce (Drag Race)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Not Your Problem, Love

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to artificialortega for the prompt "I think I would rather eat expired spam." and the seat on the clown bus. 
> 
> And of course, thank you to my lovely girlfriend, rbcch, for the constant support, gentle corrections of verb tense, and reassurance that the banter is actually enjoyable to read. Be sure to check out her writing here and at scarletenvy on tumblr. All the love.

A’whora pushes the pedal of her sewing machine back just a nudge and stretches out her legs. She rolls the last couple stitches back and forth, then cuts the threads unceremoniously, resigning herself to completing the project sometime in the early morning, after some food and some beauty sleep. It wasn’t as though she was going to sleep much tonight anyway. 

She rolls her shoulders, easing the tightness gathering there and trailing down her lower back, pulling herself to her feet. As much as she loves the chair her and Tayce drunkenly rescued from the curb many months ago, hauled four flights up their cramped stairwell and shoved into A’whora’s office, the air light and crisp and giggling along with them; as much as she loved drinking Tesco chard, the bottle passed between them as she taught Tayce how to sew patches of scrap fabric into the chair to hold the bursting stuffing back, bandaging and sloppily kissing many a pricked finger, it still hurts after a while. It always does. 

So Awhora throws back the last of her cuppa and heads down the hallway, stopping at the smoke detector flush against the wall, getting on her tip-toes, tapping a cotted finger against the button until it gives a firm beep. She doesn’t want the apartment to burn down, partially because she couldn’t bear to see a dress she’s already put twenty hours of work into to go up in flames, partially because she doesn’t want a reason for the lease to break early, partially because fire kills people.

“What’s with all the candles?” A’whora asks, slipping the cot off of her finger and into the bin. She asks, though she already knows. It’s not as though Tayce has changed much, and Tayce was always one to set a scene for date nights, so the candles and stemless wine glasses aren’t out of place. She doesn’t give Tayce the chance to answer, choosing to jab at her instead. “Lavender doesn’t cover the smell of burnt rubber, babes.” 

Tayce rolls her eyes in return, still stirring frantically at the pot in front of her. “You’re not helpful, Whora,” she drawls, now jabbing at whatever's in that wretched pot with the back end of the wooden spoon, red sauce splattering across the stovetop, sticking in Tayce’s brow. “Fuck.” 

Awhora rounds the counter, grabbing at Tayce’s arm. “Slow down, Hannibal,” she chases with a laugh, taking the spoon from Tayce to stop the violent prodding and stop herself from wiping the sauce out of her brow. “Back it up and tell me what we’re doing here.” 

“What I think I’m doing here is massacring a piece of chicken until it’s cooked.” Tayce takes the spoon back, giving it a once over before tossing it into the already full sink. 

“Well…” A’whora grabs a fork and bumps Tayce’s hip away from the stove. “For starters, turn the burner off.” She brushes the pasta and sauce away from the chicken, holds it up in front of her face, and gives it a good once over. “And surprise...it’s burnt.” She then sticks it in Tayce’s face, watching intently as her eyes cross in front of the blackened chicken.

If Tayce’s bemused sigh—as though she didn’t know food could be overcooked—doesn’t do her in, then her pursed, plump lips surely do, like she’s brainstorming ways to unburn the chicken, or better yet, ways to have A’whora fix it like she always did, well, still does. 

“Just try it to be sure, yeah?” 

A’whora wrinkles her nose, returning the chicken to the pot and poking at it like it might grow legs and get on up. “I think I’d rather eat Spam, bloody canned meat, than this.” 

“At least this isn’t bloody, innit?” 

A’whora gives a playful shove. “You’re stupid,” she says, though she know’s she’s endeared by how quick Tayce thinks she is, how she jokes even when she’s fucked up, how A’whora wished she could do the same. She dodges Tayce’s return shove to grab the bin, nearly spilling over, and drags it to the stove. “You put the chicken in raw, or you cooked it first?” 

“You just put it in, let it cook with everything else, of course,” Tayce replies easily. “So we just take the chicken out and it’s a lovely Italian meal. I say I’m going vegetarian and she’s taken by my love of animals...” 

“You got to bin the whole thing,” A’whora interrupts, making a move for the pot, but Tayce grabs her wrist. 

“Just try some of the pasta. Maybe that’s done right.” 

“It’s not. It’s gonna give me food poisoning, babe.” A’whora knows it’s a touch blunt for the woman she knows can barely heat beans from a can, but is clearly trying, and that adding “babe” does nothing to soften it. She’d like to blame the feeling of Tayce’s slender fingers wrapped around her wrist on her snappishness, but she knows that makes her melt beyond her control if anything. 

Tayce scrapes the pot, muttering to the pasta “Suppose she thinks she’s a chef now. Right Gordon Ramsey but can’t make much more than a bowl of Shreddies.” 

A’whora should be offended, but it’s true. And it’s Tayce. 

“I don’t know what to do, but I know what not to do, at least.” She clears her throat and tries again, releasing her wrist and holding out her hand for the fork. Tayce obliges. “You can’t put raw meat in cooked food. The chicken’s got germs and you’re overcooking the pasta and you’re boiling down the sauce to a paste.” She tries scraping a mushy noodle from the side of the pan. “That’s three reasons why I’d rather eat _expired_ Spam, with my freshly manicured fingers, than try this, love.”

“Little old me got an upgrade to the fingers, huh.” After Tayce’s smirk falls into an indignant huff, she steals the fork back. “Lucky it’s not for you, dear.” She picks out the chicken and flicks it into the bin. 

“I’m just saying, you’re not getting fucked after feeding her that.” A’whora grabs the paper towel roll and wipes down the counter as best she can, knowing it’s going to need a good scrub later. From the sauce, of course.

Setting the fork down, Tayce tilts her head toward A’whora. “That’s not really your problem anymore,” she says, and A’whora almost thinks she’s imagining the lilting, coy tone, though she’s sure she’s not imagining the lightheadedness that comes along with it.

She swallows. “Well, I still genuinely care about you and your pussy, so I suggest you toss that in the bin and grab some takeaway.” She makes her way to the living room, tugging on a pair of boots before grabbing her wallet and phone off the coffee table. 

“And if you call in enough time, I might still be out to grab it for you.” A’whora grabs Tayce’s leather jacket off the hook—it’s the only one out here, and she’s not sure if she’s just too lazy to grab her own, or wants to send a message to whatever woman’s coming over—and shrugs it on, stuffing her hands in the pockets. “And if I’m still out, I might _actually_ grab it for you.” She flashes a slick smile, nodding only once Tayce concedes and begins spooning the pasta into the bin. 

“That’s a love,” A’whora taunts, waving her phone a bit. “Let me know about the takeaway.” 

“Bitch,” Tayce mutters through a soft grin. 

A’whora opens the door, and says, into the falling night, “yours,” before heading out and locking up behind her.


End file.
